Where There's a Will
by Hannah the Scribe
Summary: "On the one-hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their choices during the Dark Days were their own, each district must provide eligible male and female volunteers." AU. Third-person SYOT, Open.
1. Panem Alight

**Panem Alight**

_Dionyza Ross, Head Gamemaker_

_Neil Talbot, President of Panem_

**xxx**

The City Circle was _alive. _With people, with screens, with traffic. It would be an overload of colors and sounds for anyone not used to it—the bright skyscrapers, the _whooshes _of trains and cars rushing by, the chatter of outrageous citizens.

It was the heart of the Capitol, and that was clear.

There was a fuss moving like a wave through the crowd on one sidewalk. It centered on a woman who created the fuss half by walking in the middle of everyone, and half by making everyone jump out of her way in fear.

She was the Head Gamemaker, Dionyza Ross.

It was a wide walkway, for the wide street, but no one wanted to be anywhere near her.

Dionyza didn't notice this at the moment.

Her royal purple eyes were set on the mountains, her mind racing on them—_white and gray and just a bit of brown, not as much brown as I thought, I have to tell the others; don't want ours too steep, we need to figure out the highest point elevation…._

She was on her way to the Capitol Building, to meet with the first-class citizens of the Capitol. The President, Vice President, the other Gamemakers, the Games Announcer, and Interview Host. They had to discuss the Quarter Quell—the one-_hundredth_ Games; it would be the biggest event in Games history yet.

They had their twist—or they would after this meeting, if all went well.

She arrived at her destination despite the fuss she caused; she went up the escalator, through the automatic door, and into the lobby of the Capitol Building. From there, it was through another door, unlocked via a fingerprint scan, down a hall, and a turn into a conference room.

Various people waved at her as she went in; she waved, too, and sat in her spot to the right of the President, Neil Talbot.

"—Dionyza," he greeted, "how are you?"

"_Lovely_," she said, slight sarcasm drowning her Capitol accent for a moment. "And how's the mayor-choosing going?"

"Same as it always does. Patrocles here—" he gestured to Vice President Knox, on his other side "—is handling most of it. I'm still on the paperwork from us being re-elected by the Capitol."

"Damn paperwork," she agreed.

"Yes," muttered Neil. Then he rose his voice, "But besides that—" and the chatter in the room ceased. Dionyza finally noticed that everyone else had arrived.

"Good morning," Neil started over. "Thank you for coming. As you know, we're here to confirm our Quarter Quell plans…. After the—ahem—seventy-fifth Games—we thought it better to choose the Quell on the eve of the Games, rather than reading the old card. And that is what Panem agreed on, so here we are."

Dionyza thought of those Games—the seventy-fifth. After an uneventful seventy-fourth Games, everyone had been eager for the Quell—and it had been a disaster. They read the Quell that was on the original card, which called for victors to be reaped, and it had almost caused revolt. Everyone was attached to those victors.

But the revolts had been stopped quickly. The former President had taken quick action and finally, actually destroyed District Thirteen, which only a few people knew about.

There were other changes to the Games based on that Quell—now there was only one mentor per district for each Games, due to the amount of victors taken down in the Quell, and the fact that the Capitol no longer wanted a lot of victors in one place. And the other change—the interviews. The tributes were now treated as celebrities on all of their nights in the Capitol, instead of having one night of interviews—they met their sponsors personally, as the victors had—because the victors were Capitol personalities. Now, all tributes were.

"—We got back the survey we did of the districts," said Neil. "Our Quell concept was to have every tribute be a volunteer, so that…." He trailed off, and smiled to counteract his words. "So that there would be no protests." He paused. "So we did a survey to ensure that we had at least the amount of volunteers we would need, and I'm pleased to announce that we got back positive results. There was at least one female and one male volunteer for each district, out of the eligible potential tributes."

There was happy chatter in the room.

(It was a strange society, in which some children wanted to fight to the death, in which those deaths were glorified.)

"We have our Quell," said the President. "Now for our plans…."

**xxx**

"Ladies and gentlemennn!" The words echoed out over the screaming crowd gathered in front of the Training Center. They came from the young man on the stage, the Interview Host—Calix Falls. "In just a few minutes, we're going to hear from our _beloved _President about our very, _very_ special _Quarter Quell!_"

The audience screamed again.

"Now, it's been one-hundred _years_, folks," he said seriously when they were quiet, "since the Hunger Games began. And what a hundred years it's been."

He paused. "But I'm not the one to tell you about them. So let's welcome our very own _President Talbot!"_

There were widespread cheers again, and the anthem played as the President took the stage.

"Citizens of Panem," he began, "I'm going to keep this brief, so that we won't dwell in the past, but rather look towards the future." He quickly talked about the origin of the Quarter Quells, about the Dark Days, and about the previous Quarter Quells. "These reminders keep the Games relevant," he said. "And now, for our fourth Quarter Quell."

You could've heard a pin drop in the City Circle, formerly so abuzz with noise.

"On the one-hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their choices during the Dark Days were their own, each district must provide eligible male and female _volunteers._"

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then the Capitol broke into cheers.

After several minutes, the President got quiet again. "May the odds be ever in your favor," he concluded, and then left the stage.

Inside the Training Center, Dionyza, Patrocles, and the Games Announcer, Lazarus Bailey, greeted him.

"Great speech, Neil," said Lazarus, clapping him on the back.

"Thank you," he said.

"And Calix is doing great out there, too."

Dionyza shrugged. "He's trying a little too hard to be the old Interview Host."

"Not his fault that's what the people expect," argued Neil, not rudely. "In any case…." They got to talking about political matters, and soon the event outside was being wrapped up—Calix joined them.

"I think these'll be a hell of a Games," he said.

"You have no idea," said Dionyza.

**xxx**

The Quarter Quell hit Panem like a lightning bolt, electrifying the nation. The Capitol's excitement was boiling over, and the districts wondered what they were supposed to think.

Peacekeepers were dispatched to make sure that no one came to the wrong conclusions; victors in the districts celebrated being safe for a Quell, and mourned the future tributes who didn't know what they were getting into. In the Remake Center, the stylists and prep teams were abuzz with ideas for the volunteers, and in the Games Headquarters, the escorts pondered about the Reapings.

In the Gamemaking Center, the Gamemakers planned.

And, on a balcony of the Presidential Mansion, Neil stood and looked out over the electrified city.

That had only been the reading of the card.

There were many, many more surprises still to come—and the Games themselves were fast approaching.

**xxx**

**Author's Note: **So there you have Chapter One. What did you think of it? And this _is_ an SYOT, so mention in your review if you want the tribute form and such. Thank you for reading; happy Hunger Games, good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.


	2. Creative Energy

**Creative Energy**

_Dionyza Ross, Head Gamemaker_

**xxx**

There were quite a lot of last-minute creations being made at the Gamemaking Center. Everything was even more chaotic than usual with the approach of the Games, and they had already been on an increased chaos level for the last few years. The size of the Gamemaker panel had shrunk, and they were currently down to seven of them. Which meant more work for everyone.

And they were evidently feeling that.

"These people are crazy," said Vita Gilette, who was in charge of managing the other Hunger Games staff—the escorts, stylists, prep teams… and on occasion, even trying to keep the mentors under control. With the job came the management of the sponsors and the gamblers.

"Cry me a river," Dionyza said.

"Oh, don't be mean to her, 'Nyza," chided Tatiana Dexter, because she could get away with it.

Dionyza rolled her eyes.

"—Nyza?"

"What?"

Tatiana sighed at her. "You were spacing out again. I was _asking you_ what happened with the new batch of mutts."

"We re-did the color gradient for their fur," she started, and then noted that Faust Joiner had entered the control room. He was in charge of the mutts, so she asked, "Faust, what else did we do with the new mutts?"

Faust shrugged, looking more at the screen on his table section than at Dionyza. "Some basic reprogramming," he said, voice quiet.

"Did you send it to me?"

"I think so."

"—Going back to our _original_ topic," cut in Vita, "some of the people bugging me are the stylists, they want to know what they can about the tribute outfits."

"Say we're still working on them," said Dionyza.

"Don't you think I thought of that?"

"I wouldn't know. And stop being obnoxious." Not that Dionyza—and all of the others—weren't used to each other, to their artistic temperaments and frustration with idiocy coming out. They had to have their banter to deal with the Games.

The mock-tension was diffused when Cyprian Alston also entered the control room. "I come in peace and bearing food!" he announced.

"Thank Panem," said Dionyza.

Cyprian half brought the coffee around to everyone and was half trampled by some of them in the rush for the cups and the tray of things he'd set down.

Dionyza, while she did drift over to retrieve her own large half-and-half triple espresso with extras, wasn't that focused on the food. She needed to focus, as much as she ever did. She didn't have a death wish—especially since it was a Quarter Quell, and especially after the last one… these Games had to be spectacular.

So she needed to concentrate on them.

Not on coffee, even though it was fairly early in the morning.

"—Are you worrying, Dionyza?" Someone's voice—sweet, with a Capitol accent—interrupted her thoughts: Junia Day's. Dionyza'd kind of forgotten she was there. Junia was like that, usually hiding in a tech room somewhere.

"Only about important things," Dionyza answered.

"That's good," said Junia, and then faded back into the chaos. The Gamemakers drifted in and out of the control room, off to other parts of the Gamemaking Center—Vita had left, and Phanes Ledford was entering, already asking some question about his climatology aspect of the arena.

Phanes, even in the group of intellectuals, stood out as the curious nerd.

But Dionyza didn't pay much attention to him, instead falling into her usual group of her, Tatiana and Cyprian.

"I found the best new cinematography program," said Cyprian. "Free trial that'll get us through the Games, but it'll be a lot of work to transfer everything over."

"Send the details to me," said Dionyza.

"Already did. Did you miss it?"

"Must've," said Dionyza. "I'll look again, if you really sent it."

"I did," Cyprian said, but lightly, because he knew that was just how Dionyza was.

Tatiana cut in, "That's the program I told you about earlier, 'Nyza."

Dionyza nodded. She remembered most of that. _If we can change the cameras' light settings from the program…._

She pulled it up on her table-screen, and soon was captivated by her work too much for conversation.

Tatiana understood that. She'd fought her way into the Gamemaking world tooth and nail. While most Gamemakers were hired straight from college, Tatiana was not. She continued her internship at the Gamemaking Center until she got an in—a job as an escort. She dealt personally with the kids—tributes—for years, her heart breaking for them even as she became more and more set on her goal—being a Gamemaker.

Finally, a position opened, and it was hers.

With that conversation fading, there was another one starting across the room.

Faust was getting old and getting tired of hiding from people. But his energy for fighting his social anxiety was wearing off quickly. So he had been working alone in the control room, not having interacted with the others for a while.

And then came the usual interruption to his "alone" time—Junia.

They had an odd friendship; Junia was hired after the ninety-eighth Games, young and sweet and cheerful, the possible opposite of Faust except for that she fought the same battles when it came to talking to other people.

But she was more determined than he was—she tried to drag the both of them into conversations.

Or at least, she'd settle for him talking to her.

"Hi," she smiled, trying to make eye contact with him as they'd worked on. (They were strange in these ways.) "How's the work going?"

"Fine," he said. "How's yours?"

"Fine," she said, also an echo. This was as far as they got without effort. But she continued: "How's the mutt-breeding going?"

"Fine," he said again, wishing that he were working on the breeding at the current moment. That would mean disappearing to a mutt development lab upstairs, which had the versions of mutts, set to docile in the lab, of course, though the final version, which would be cloned at the arena site, would be vicious. Faust could lose himself in his work for hours, sitting in the tall grass of that room.

But in the present moment, Junia waved Phanes into their conversation. He also asked both of them how the work was going, taking over the conversation.

But they were interrupted.

Dionyza called out over the room: "Countdown says exactly one week until the start of the first Reaping!"

And no one was sure how to react.

**xxx**

**Author's Note: **And so we meet the other Gamemakers. How are you finding them? Once again, please mention in your review if you want the SYOT tribute form. Thanks for reading.


	3. Victory Costs

**Victory Costs**

_Amaranth Glass, District Nine Victor of the Eightieth Hunger Games_

**xxx**

The main living room of the victors' area of the Games Headquarters was abuzz with noise. All of the mentors for the Quell were in the Capitol ahead of time to start getting to know the sponsors for that year. They'd transfer to the Training Center when the tributes got there, but for now….

For now they were wrecking their chaos in the Games Headquarters.

Slatia Patel was breaking down in the corner she was backing herself into. "I didn't want to freeze," she whimpered, her head and eyes whipping back and forth, "that's why I drank their blood, that's why I kill—killed them, my allies, my _friends, _I—" Suddenly her gray eyes shot to the size of saucers and she screamed.

"Slatia," Amaranth Glass called to her in a whisper, "it's okay. You're okay now. You lived. You did what you had to and you _lived_."

But she wasn't calming down. Amaranth sighed. She tried to take care of all of the other victors as best she could, but Slatia was a special case—she was the youngest victor in history—she'd been twelve. And the twelve-year-olds weren't really _meant_ to win the Hunger Games. Especially ones from _District_ Twelve.

So Slatia had breakdowns like this, even sixteen years later.

Someone else was also trying to calm her down—Linden Pruitt. He was only eighteen at the current moment, the youngest and newest victor of the Quell group, from the ninety-sixth Games, for District Seven.

(He was the opposite of Amaranth, the oldest, who'd won the eightieth Games.)

Linden had latched on to Slatia's otherwise child-like nature and tried to help her—the pain was fresh for him, too, and both of them were amongst those currently being _sold, _renewing old wounds.

"—Shh, the Games are over, they're over, Slatia," he tried.

"They're not over, they're never over—" came the hysterical whimper, her voice breaking at the end.

Linden looked at Amaranth. "What… what can we do?" he asked.

"Martin might have something that'll soothe her," she said. She went over to the door and poked her head into the hall. "Martin!" she called, her voice still gentle, "you around?"

Martin Lester peered out of his room. "Yeah," he said gruffly.

"Slatia needs help."

"Of course she does."

"What do you have?"

Martin disappeared and then came back out, and down the hall to Amaranth, handing her a syringe. "Nothing too heavy," he said. His yellow-ish skin spoke to the contrary. But District Six victors tended to end up that way, and the eighty-third Games had been especially miserable for him.

Amaranth nodded thanks, and Martin left, back down the hall to his room where Burton Trevino, Poult Lowery, and Larch Conway had gathered.

They were more similar to him than some of the others, and often gathered for drinks and whatever else was available. Burton was from District Eight and won the eighty-seventh Games; Poult was from Ten and won the eighty-first; Larch was from Eleven and won the ninety-first.

All had alcohol in at least one hand at the moment.

At least it was during their off time, not right when they were supposed to be working with sponsors.

"What do you think the Capitol thinks they're doing, making us promote our kids when we don't have any yet?" asked Burton.

"It's just a fad marketing strategy," said Larch. "We won't have to do it again, I bet."

Poult simply hmphed.

Someone leaned in through the doorway. Ryke(r) Eaton. He was a Career, from Two, and not really part of their group, but was wondering about someone from his own. "Speaking of doing it," he opened with, "does anyone know who Saxony's off with? She was supposed to be back half an hour ago. Nina and I are looking for her."

Saxony Lancaster was from the ever-popular District One, and though she'd won ten years ago—the year after Ryke—she was still a popular escort.

"Not anyone good, probably," said Burton.

Ryke rolled his eyes. "All right. I'll see if Nina found her."

He strolled out of the room and almost ran right into Nina Leon in the hall. They both jumped back on instinct. "Found her!" Nina announced, gesturing to Saxony beside her.

"Clearly," said Ryke.

"It's cute that you guys still worry," said Saxony, her tone undetectable.

The three were close, at least—they'd won consecutive Games, starting with Nina in the eighty-eighth for District Four. The Capitol had latched right on to her, too, in all the wrong ways.

They headed back to Nina's room, where they tended to hang out. They were inside all of two seconds when there was a _bang_ from the room next door.

That room belonged to Daita Wiley of District Three. For the five years she'd been a victor, she was still really holding on to the inventive spirit of Three.

"Eh, keep it down in there!" Ryke called over.

"Sorry!"

The voice that answered wasn't from Daita, but Faraday White—District Five, also inventive. She'd won the year before Daita.

Ryke opened the door that connected the two rooms. Faraday and Daita were huddled over something faintly producing smoke and beeping.

"You really want to die like that after all you've done to live?" he asked.

"We're not going to die," Daita said matter-of-factly. Faraday simply nodded in agreement.

Someone looked in through the main doorway of Daita's room—Amaranth. "Everyone all right?" she asked.

"Fine," said Daita, and Faraday again nodded.

"Well," said Ryke, "as much as any of us ever are."

**xxx**

**Author's Note: **And so we meet… the victors! Thoughts? And there are still tribute spots open, so if you haven't already, mention in your review if you'd like the form. Thank you.


	4. Demetra

**Demetra**

_Demetra Sophie Montgomery, District One Female Tribute_

**xxx**

It had been five weeks. Five weeks ago, Demetra had disappeared, run off with her boyfriend, Jeremy, to have children who wouldn't know about the Games. Because five years ago, those Games took Genevieve; her best friend had left for the arena and died with a smile on her face.

Demetra hadn't smiled.

Five weeks ago, Jeremy had turned her in to the Peacekeepers, with a smile on his face.

And Demetra hadn't smiled.

They were going to let her go, though, they said. But she was going to volunteer for the Games, for those wretched, awful, damned_ Games_—

"—Demetra, you have to get up, it's Reaping Day."

Jasmine was opening the curtains. Jasmine, her new best friend. The one who'd been staying with her for weeks to make sure she was okay. She deserved so much more from her, Demetra thought. Jasmine loved her, and she deserved that kind of love back from Demetra. But… with what had happened with Jeremy, and the Games, and everything, she just couldn't love anyone like that and—

"Demetra."

"I'm up." She rolled over to face away from the curtains.

Jasmine smiled anyway. "You wouldn't want to spend your almost nineteenth birthday in bed, would you?"

That was another thing that would make her stand out from the other tributes, Demetra thought. And the last thing she wanted was the Capitol's attention. Tomorrow she would be nineteen, the oldest of the tributes, allowed on a technicality because she was eighteen on Reaping Day.

"I guess not," Demetra mumbled. She tried to rub at her neck but found a tangled mass of her red hair in the way.

She hadn't slept well—nightmares usually plagued her sleep, and last night was no exception. But Jasmine was so patient with her.

She sat on the side of the bed now, and tried to sort out some of Demetra's hair. "Let's go get some breakfast," she said gently.

Demetra nodded even though she felt sick with fear and probably more. (She hadn't told Jasmine that she had to volunteer, and it was gnawing at her. She couldn't just volunteer with no explanation beforehand, but how in Panem could she explain it all now?)

They went downstairs, Jasmine holding Demetra's hand. Demetra wondered if it taunted Jasmine to be so close to her, yet not where she wanted to be, or if she was happy with whatever affection Demetra gave her.

Downstairs, her family greeted her. Mother and Father, both Peacekeepers off for the day—the old rule on them having kids had been revoked, although her parents' situation was still odd, and they supported Demetra—and her stepsister, Mercy. Her parents had separated for a while when she was very young, before getting back together, so Mercy wasn't fully her younger sister.

Mercy was trying to act upbeat. But their parents had told her about the situation. She knew she wouldn't have to go into the Games herself, just like Jasmine, and tried to focus on that—but her sister was.

Jasmine was the only truly happy one there.

If only she knew.

Jasmine greeted everyone brightly, and tried to hide her being puzzled when no one else seemed as happy. Demetra nodded to everyone. At least she could trust everyone in this room. But once she left for the Capitol, she might never be able to say that again.

But she tried to let herself get swept into the land of family nicknames—Em from Mercy, Dee from her mother—which she wasn't a fan of—and such. The things of a normal household. But she could barely look at anyone. She wanted to hide and pick up the candle making she'd been working on last night.

Instead she was here, being treated like a child.

Everyone sat, and she tried to eat. She only managed to pick at her breakfast stew with bread.

Since it was clear she wasn't interested in the food or conversation, her mother asked, "Dee, can I borrow you?"

Demetra scowled at the name, but went with her mother off to a side room. She supposed she should have been happier with the Capitol for letting District One have nice things like side rooms, but she still felt only hatred.

Her mother handed her something. "The Mayor wants you to take this," she said. "Should be quick, no worries."

Demetra looked at it. It was a pregnancy test.

She flushed, thinking of the night she'd spent with Jeremy when they ran. "The Mayor _knew?_" she almost exploded. "We had _no_ privacy?"

"Dee…." Her mother trailed off. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

Demetra shook her head. "I'll just take the test and get it over with," she said. They'd used protection. Evidently the Mayor hadn't seen that.

So she retreated to a bathroom and took the test, giving a bit of her blood and waiting for the result to load officially.

Meanwhile she looked in the mirror and sighed at her hair.

The test beeped.

She looked at it, then blinked.

"No," she whispered.

It was positive.

"No, no, no, no, no," she breathed, panicking. She scrambled for the box to see how accurate the test was—almost one-hundred percent. It was a good Capitol product, too.

Her heart pounded, she couldn't breathe at all past the words, and the room spun. She looked at herself in the mirror again—she looked so young, she couldn't—she couldn't really be _pregnant,_ could she?

She thought about it. She'd felt sick that morning—and most mornings—she'd been tired, spending so much time in bed, she'd been so emotional, she'd attributed it all to what had happened but not—not like this. Never like this.

Demetra reflected that she _was_ late for her period.

But the Games… today… it was Reaping Day! She was going to die; her child was going to die—her child….

She looked at the test again. The test could already tell her that the child would be a girl.

Her girl. Her little girl. Her baby girl. Who would probably never see the light of day.

Tears streaked her face, and then she jumped as her mother knocked on the door. "Are you all right in there? Do you need help with the test?"

Demetra opened the door.

"What's wrong?" her mother asked. "You only have to give a little blood, Dee, it's not a big deal…."

Demetra shook her head. "I'm pregnant," she whispered, and then let out a sob. "I'm _pregnant,_" she repeated. "The protection failed."

"Oh, Dee," said her mother, and hugged her tightly. "You're so young…."

Over her mother's shoulder, Demetra saw Jasmine, looking shocked. She pulled back from her mother, and let Jasmine run over to hug her.

"I'm going to go tell your father and Mercy," said her mother, expression blank, and left.

Jasmine shakily pulled back from Demetra. "It'll be fine," she said, and smiled. "We'll raise them together. Do you know—?"

"It's a girl," said Demetra.

"She'll be our little girl," Jasmine reassured her.

Demetra shook her head. "Jasmine—I—oh, Jasmine—no, no… she won't be. I—"

"What is it?" Jasmine asked her.

"I have to volunteer!" Demetra blurted. "The Peacekeepers didn't really just let me go, but I couldn't make myself tell you, they said I have to—I have to go into the Games—Mother saw something at work she wasn't supposed to and they used Jeremy to make me incriminate myself. And—if I don't, they'd just kill me, oh, Jasmine, they'd kill _you_, they'd kill Mercy…." She trailed off into a short bout of sobs.

Jasmine rubbed Demetra's back, in shocked silence.

"What if I volunteered?" asked Jasmine. "Would that work for them?"

Demetra shook her head. "No, no, you can't, even if they'd let you, _I_ wouldn't, I can't…."

Jasmine accepted the answer easily, just nodding. "Then you win," she said quietly after a few moments.

Demetra also nodded, sniffling. "Then I win," she echoed. "That's all—that's all I have to do."

"Mmhmm."

After more silence, Jasmine said: "Let's get ready for the Reaping, okay? And we can deal with everything else soon."

"Okay," said Demetra. She let Jasmine pull her through the motions. She sat her down on her bed and looked through the closet for her.

"What color do you want to wear?" she asked, as if that was all that mattered.

Demetra shrugged. "Green," she decided on. Like her eyes. And it would go well with her hair, and she was really trying to concentrate on that.

Jasmine pulled a green dress from the closet. "You'll look pretty in this," she said, trying to be cheerful. She handed it to Demetra.

"All right," was what Demetra said, and Jasmine left so that Demetra could get ready. She put the dress on, running her hands over her stomach and thinking about how there was a _human_ inside of her, and… she wasn't ready for that. But she wasn't really getting any options.

Jasmine returned, cleaned up and wearing a gray dress of her own. "You want me to brush out your hair?" she asked.

"Sure," said Demetra, because it was an impossible task for herself and she needed to think of that as impossible, not winning the Hunger Games, not surviving—

They both sat on the bed and Jasmine took out Demetra's braids, started brushing out her hair, slowly, so gently. Which was part her personality and part, Demetra thought bitterly, of how she probably thought of her as delicate.

She was delicate. Emotionally. And she was _pregnant._

Evidently her hair was as sorted as it was going to get, and put into her usual ponytail. "Thanks," she got out, and it was still choked. Then she coughed. "I should go… wash up." She went back to the bathroom, realized the test was gone—Mother must have taken it to show the Mayor, or… something. Was that the result the Mayor wanted?

She felt even sicker.

She cleaned herself up, and then was evidently just staring into the mirror when Jasmine came and told her, again quiet, "It's time to go."

Demetra nodded as if in a trance. She didn't say anything, but walked all the way around the house to see everything for a final time before going back to where everyone was in the living room.

They were all solemn—they all knew everything now.

Mercy hugged her before they left.

The walk to the square was painful, silent. As Demetra signed in she wondered if the woman who checked her name knew what was going to happen to her.

They went off to their sections, and Jasmine held Demetra's hand again.

Demetra looked down at their intertwined fingers and sighed.

The Mayor approached the microphone at the podium on the left side of the stage. Demetra tensed further. He was the man who was sending her into the arena. "Welcome," he said. "We begin this Reaping Day with the story of our great nation."

Music began to play, low and dramatic, and continued.

On the other side of the stage, a giant screen showed the film that told the story, with performers coming out from inside the Justice Building, acting in front of the screen—marching to the war tunes, picking up swords and acting as tributes in the arena. (The performers were some graduates of the Training Center, Demetra thought—so they knew what they were doing there.)

The Mayor spoke, meanwhile, about the history of Panem. About the Dark Days, about the Quarter Quells and the changes to the Games over the years. He spoke of District One, of all of their victors.

Demetra tried to listen. But mostly she cut off the circulation in Jasmine's hand.

After applause, the performers left, the screen went blank, the music stopped, and the Mayor sat.

Their escort took the stage—Ammon Stevenson.

Demetra despised him, too. She knew the district and Capitol gossip—their escort had _bought_ their lead mentor many times. It was also sickening.

And while she fumed, most of the district around her was just waiting to go home. Which made her fume more.

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor," said the escort. "I am _delighted_ to be here with the good people of District One." He continued talking, ending with wishing the tributes good luck.

It was almost time for her to volunteer. The tribute selected by the District One Training Center would've been told to not volunteer after all. So it would be just her. Demetra closed her eyes, tried to calm her breathing and her heart rate, but it wasn't working. She let go of Jasmine.

"Now, we call for our _female _volunteer!"

Demetra's eyes flew open. "I volunteer as tribute," she said, and then realized that almost no one could hear her. "I volunteer!" she called, louder, and started nudging her way through the section to get out into the aisle. Then she was just standing there, with so, so many eyes on her.

"I volunteer as tribute," she repeated, quieter again.

"Excellent!" said the escort, and gestured for her to come up to the stage. Demetra tried to keep her head up as she walked towards the stairs, clutched at the railings as she made her way onto the stage with heavy footsteps.

She shuffled into position, looking out at the crowd. She'd never see most of those faces again, in all odds. But so many people were looking at her.

"What's your name?" asked the escort.

"Demetra… Sophie… Montgomery," she got out, then scolded herself for hesitating.

"Very nice."

Demetra didn't _feel_ very nice. A bit numb, a bit terrified, a bit infuriated, a bit despairing—but not _very nice_.

After a pause, Ammon said, "We now call for our _male_ volunteer!"

"I volunteer!" someone shouted quickly. He was already shoving his way out of his section—the eighteen-year-olds, too. That was to be expected, since he would be a Training Center volunteer.

Pete, Demetra thought his name was. She'd heard about him.

She wasn't thinking much, and she should've been—should've been sizing up the competition, but she was too busy thinking about betrayal and bloodshed and birth and death.

"—Come on up," said Ammon, and the boy came up to the stage. "What's your name?"

"Petore Glint, but you can call me Pete." He flashed a smile and a wink at the audience. He clearly knew how to play things.

"Welcome, Pete," said the escort. He shook hands with him, and then Demetra—and then gestured for them to shake hands with each other.

He had a strong grip, Demetra thought, and she didn't like it, or the way he looked at her.

Would he be the one who killed her? Would he do it quickly?

"—We now have a live performance of our anthem," said the escort, and the performers came back out from the Justice Building—they went to the other side of the stage, and started to sing.

"… _And when you raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call, and we shall never falter…."_

For just one moment, Demetra _tried_ to absorb the patriotic energy. Tried to think of being a tribute as an honor. Tried to think of the Capitol as grand. But she couldn't do it.

"… _Though dark may fall, through darkness light will shine, as they believe, the darkness is the light…."_

The anthem soon ended, and after applause, the performers went back into the Justice Building.

"I wish you all a happy Hunger Games," Ammon said to the crowd. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

He then gestured for Demetra and Pete to go with him into the Justice Building. Demetra flinched from where he rested a hand on her shoulder blade.

Inside the building, she was guided to a room of her own to wait for her visitors. The Reaping was still wrapping up outside with the Mayor.

Alone, Demetra tried to think. She'd been working on her last words for a while but she still wasn't completely confident in them. And who knew where her family and Jasmine would take the conversations.

The door opened.

It was her mother and father. "Mercy and Jasmine both wanted to come on their own," her father said firstly.

Demetra nodded. That made sense.

"They thought—that it would be easier—to say goodbye…." Her father was getting emotional, and Demetra tried to offer a reassuring smile. It was hard to fake it, though.

Her mother chimed in: "Oh, Dee, all you have to do is hide, stay away from everyone, and you can win, you can come home, we can all raise the baby…."

"I'm not going to hide," said Demetra. "I'm going to join the Careers."

"But Dee—"

"No, Mother, I might not be from the Training Center, but I'm still from District One, and I'm going to act like it."

"You're just so—"

"So what?" asked Demetra. "Little? I'm almost nineteen. I'll be the oldest in the arena. For Panem's sake, I'm not the little girl you think I am! And because of Jeremy, you wouldn't even just be loosing your daughter—you'd be loosing _my_ child, too!"

Her mother was quiet. Then she pulled something from her pocket and pressed it into Demetra's hand. "Here," she said. "Take this. And know it's true."

It was a silver bracelet, with the words _a mother's love is forever _engraved on it.

Demetra put it on her wrist. "Thank you." She tried to calm herself down with those words.

"Father's love, too," said her father.

It brought Demetra a little genuine smile.

She hugged both of them, before they ran out of time. "I love you," she told them both, and they said it back.

"I'll see you again," she told them.

"But just in case—"

"No, Mother. Our goodbyes are just for now. We can't—we can't think like that."

Her mother nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. "For everything. For seeing—"

"—I know."

They all looked at each other.

"Okay," said Demetra. "Go, before _I_ get emotional. I love you," she said again.

"We love you, too," said her father, and soon, her parents were out the door.

She had a few seconds to compose herself, thinking of how both of her parents were Peacekeepers, they were high up in the district, and she still wasn't exempt from being forced to volunteer….

The door opened again. Mercy.

"Hey, Em," Mercy said to her. Again with the nicknames. Even Mercy was one—she was Mercedes Daniella Montgomery.

"Hi," said Demetra, and hugged her stepsister tightly. She felt like she had to sugarcoat things for her because she was younger—but it was only a year and a half, Mercy was seventeen, almost out of the Reaping, but she was also so young, they were all so young….

She looked down at Mercy even though she wasn't that much shorter than her, looked at the top of her head, her hair dyed an ice blue—that was how close they were to the Capitol. And now look what had happened.

"It'll be okay," said Mercy.

Demetra nodded.

"Do you have a plan?"

"I have… ideas," Demetra said honestly. "It depends, on the other Careers, the arena… what I need to do for the baby." She paused. "I don't want to play the baby angle. I want to keep it a secret—I—I forgot to tell Mother and Father, can you tell them—?"

Mercy nodded.

"Thank you."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why not play the baby angle?"

"I can't be a mother and a Career at the same time. I have to seem strong, even if I'm not from the Training Center. Like the tributes from Four do."

"Okay," said Mercy.

There was silence, and then suddenly Mercy seemed emotional. "I don't want to talk about strategy in our last—maybe last—minutes," she said, voice choked. "I just want to say—I love you, and I couldn't—couldn't have asked for a better sister. I'll miss you even if it's just for a few weeks."

Demetra hugged her again. "I love you, too. Thank you."

"For what?" Mercy wiped at her eyes.

"For being you, for being here."

Mercy nodded. "Of course."

Demetra looked towards the door. "Time's probably almost up."

"I know. I should—I should go." Mercy took a few steps back. "I love you, Demetra. Again."

"I love you, too. Again."

With a trace of a smile, Mercy was out the door.

Demetra tried to breathe. Her next visitor would be her last.

Jasmine opened the door. It had barely closed behind her when she ran to hug Demetra. It almost knocked her off balance, and it made the suppressed tears spring back to her eyes.

Jasmine pulled back. "Sorry… sorry," she said, her voice also choked, and helped Demetra rebalance.

Demetra reflected that it had been an emotionally exhausting day, and that would probably be true for a long, long time.

"It's okay," she told Jasmine, on almost knocking her over. She looked at her best friend's state and tried to reassure, "_You're_ okay."

Jasmine sniffled. "I should be the one telling you that."

Demetra shrugged.

"I just—I don't want you to worry, in the Games, when you get back, everything'll be fine, we'll raise… the baby…."

The way she trailed off reminded Demetra. "I have a name," she said. "It's yours. I'm going to name the baby for you, and for Genevieve. Jasmine Genevieve."

Jasmine smiled tearfully. "It'll be an honor. Thank you."

Demetra squeezed her hand.

The situation just really wasn't fair, both of them were good people, they were both just kind of a mess—but Jasmine was better, and Jasmine was in love—

"I'm sorry," Demetra blurted.

"What?"

"I'm sorry that I don't… that I haven't… I know… I know you like me, Jasmine."

"Like," Jasmine scoffed, lightly. "Love," she corrected.

Demetra sighed. "I know, I _know_—and I—I love you, as a friend, and maybe after the Games and with the baby and when I can stop thinking about Jeremy, we could… I could… love you differently. But right now, I can't, all right? I can't. It's too much."

"After the Games?" Jasmine asked hopefully.

"We'll see," said Demetra, and felt horrible.

Jasmine nodded solemnly. Demetra looked at the ground.

"Okay," Jasmine whispered. "I guess this is where we say goodbye, for now."

"Goodbye, Jasmine," Demetra said, forcing the words out just like that.

"Goodbye, Demetra," echoed Jasmine, and with a last glance at her, she, too, left.

Demetra had little time alone before Ammon, Pete behind him, appeared to take her to the train station.

"Ready?" he asked, in his higher-pitched Capitol voice.

Demetra gritted her teeth and nodded.

She and Pete followed Ammon through the Justice Building, out a back door, to where the train station was. There, the film crews from the Reaping had re-gathered.

Demetra wasn't a great actress. But she tried to look confident, tried to wave and manage just the right smirk like Pete did.

She needed to become a Career.

Cameras flashed in their eyes; reporters bustled around. One pointed a microphone towards Demetra: "Can you tell us what drove you to volunteer?"

_Shit._ She needed a cover story. "I just… I just knew that I have what it takes to win the Games," she tried.

"Pete?" asked the same reporter.

"I've been training for the Games my whole life," he said, "and I was the best."

After a few minutes, Ammon said, "That's enough questions for now, we'll see you all back in the Capitol!" and gestured for Demetra and Pete to follow him onto the train.

Demetra took a deep breath as she walked forwards amongst the flashing lights. Her eyes scanned for the spaces between them, and she tried on another smirk as she half-turned to give a final wave before the train doors closed behind them.

**xxx**

**Author's Note: **So here you have Demetra, our first tribute. What do you think of her? After the Reaping chapters, we're going to have train ride chapters, so don't worry about not seeing the ride just yet. Even though we've started the introductions, there are still tribute spots open for the rest of you, so please let me know if you want the form in a review! Thank you.


	5. Pete

**Pete**

_Petore "Pete" Glint, District One Male Tribute_

**xxx**

Pete swiped his ID card through the slot next to the front door of the District One Training Center. It unlocked the door for him—your ID card let you into wherever you were allowed to be, when you were allowed to be there—and recorded that he'd been to the Training Center that day.

The halls were abuzz with the Careers in training, identified by their uniforms; Pete exchanged nods and smirks with some of them, winks at the girls, but he didn't do much more than that. He continued until he reached a clear automatic sliding door on the left, which he went through to get to the cafeteria.

It served three meals a day, but you would only eat one or two depending on your schedule. Today it would be just breakfast and lunch for Pete.

He got into the line for food and made eye contact with his siblings at their table across the room. Tables were sorted by last name, so they were together. Matthue, Nickole, and Petore Glint. Or, Matt, Nicki and Pete.

He reached the front of the line and again swiped his ID card through a slot in the wall. A meal made custom for him appeared through the opening next to the slot. It took into account dietary preferences, allergies, what nutrients they needed for training, and what needed to be injected into the food—which steroids, which Capitol drugs, to keep the Careers physically fit and mentally "healthy".

Pete put his card away, took the tray and went off to his table, sitting and starting to eat.

"Everyone's been trying to catch a glimpse of you," said Nicki. "Since you're chosen for today."

"I know," Pete said with another smirk.

If Nicki, who was only twelve and not a likely candidate to be chosen, was in the loop enough to hear about his popularity, then he was a big deal. Matt was also on the younger side—fifteen, and also not likely to be chosen—and he was nodding in agreement. (Pete had started training exceptionally young—practically since birth.)

"Especially since we don't have any school classes for Games season," Matt said. Those were also handled through the Training Center for the top Careers.

"Yeah," said Pete. "And since they're having a non-Training Center girl tribute, for some stupid reason."

Nicki shrugged and Matt nodded.

The thought was quickly out of Pete's head. He was focused on the rest of the day to come—the Reaping. It was a half-day at the Center for everyone.

But Pete wasn't "everyone", and he knew it.

When he was conceived, his genes showed exceptional Career potential. So the medical workers started altering them further for the Training Center, and while he retained typical District One traits—blue eyes for example—he was altered to be tall—he was six-foot-three now, and well-built at currently two-hundred pounds. These things were kept track of carefully.

His genes were also altered to make sure he would have a Career mindset, as much as those genetics had been mastered—they made him confident. The genes altered also made him attractive for the sponsors, and this was maintained last minute through the Training Center stylists.

Everything was maintained, whether through the Training Center food or the rigorous training or more injections or the stylists, and kept track of by the Training Center workers.

—Soon, a bell tolled, signaling the end of breakfast.

"See you guys later," Pete told his siblings, and returned his empty tray, then went off according to his schedule. For a win-win scenario, he was training some of the younger hopeful Careers. It would sharpen the basic skills in his mind and get it going in theirs.

He repeated his hallway routine and then reached the training room he was supposed to be in.

The training instructor came over to him. "Hey, Pete," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. Not all of the instructors were like that, but this one had some of it in him and Pete brought out the rest.

"Hey," said Pete, as the eleven-year-olds—commonly called elevens, as ages seemed to go in the Training Center—filtered in.

"You can do your warm-ups on your own while I get them settled in," said the instructor.

"Sure," said Pete. He had different warm-ups than the little elevens. So he went through the room out into an attached sub-room, which was where the training _gym_ area was for that room.

The elevens wouldn't need it for their warm-ups, but Pete needed his own space to not get in their way.

The warm-ups were nothing to him now—stretches first, then laps around the gym, then pushups, sit-ups, and lunges.

He was done before the elevens, and so he waited for them to be done, looking through the glass, before entering the room again.

Right away, the instructor introduced him, "As you probably know, this is Pete—our tribute for this year," he said. "He's here to help train you today."

The instructor looked at Pete, but continued talking to the whole class. "Pete, we've been working on our sword-fighting."

Pete smirked. He knew they'd be working with swords, and they were his specialty.

"But _some of us,_" he looked out at the young Careers, who looked guilty, "have been having some trouble with our footwork. Would you spar with me so we can show them the right skills?"

"Well, sure," Pete said in the same tone. He went over to one of the sword racks, selected a dulled small-sword, and got back into position. The instructor picked up a sword of his own.

The instructor told one of the elevens to tell them when to start, and when they said, "Go," Pete lunged at where the instructor had thrust his sword out.

Pouncing on the movement, the instructor swiped at Pete's sword, making him work backwards, shuffling just right to show the elevens. Their swords shrieked in constant collisions, to the left, to the right, and Pete spun out of the way of the instructor's jab.

The instructor swung out at him from the left but Pete blocked him with an arm and sword straight out; they scuffled with almost just the tips of the swords until Pete lunged again.

Shuffling backwards now, the instructor was having trouble blocking Pete's swipes, until with a final step forward, Pete jabbed his sword out to poke the instructor's chest, right over his heart, finishing the simulation.

The instructor threw up his hands. "There you have it," he said to the elevens.

And so for the rest of the morning, Pete worked with the elevens. Correcting their posture, their movements, their footwork, their sword technique. He demonstrated more and proudly showed off his own skills with a sword.

But cool downs and then lunchtime came, and Pete thought it was strange that his training was officially over. In District One, at least, and there had been another "last" day of his own actual training before that.

Pete wasn't too nostalgic. He loved training, but he wasn't a nostalgic person.

Lunch, his last meal there, went as expected. He was eager to move on, things blurring together, towards getting ready for the Reaping. Soon he would be in the hands of the District One Training Center stylists, and they could coo over how good he looked naturally but make him look even better.

All for the Capitol. The sponsors.

Pete adored them.

He wouldn't need much sponsorship, he was sure, but he would _get_ plenty of it.

After lunch he almost bounded down the hall to get to where he would be "remade". Not really remade. Just glorified.

"—Oh, _look,_ it's our _precious_ little tribute," drawled the woman who was apparently his stylist. She had sharp features, strikingly blonde hair and green eyes; she was well built, probably a former Career in training.

Unsuccessfully, obviously.

"It's me," Pete agreed, winking at her with a smirk.

She only glared. That was unusual.

_Bitter, much?_ Pete thought.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing to a hairdresser's chair at a styling station in front of her.

Pete did.

She roughly ran her fingers over his short hair—also blonde—and tsked. She wasn't cooing over him. Pete was getting irritated. "You trained too hard this morning," she said. "I'll have to wash all of the sweat out of your hair."

Pete rolled his eyes.

Soon his stylist got to work. First she manicured his nails, which made Pete roll his eyes yet more, and shaved his face even though it was already smooth, exfoliating a bit later.

She ordered someone else to do a quick teeth polish on him, which Pete endured quietly—his stylist wasn't doing much chit chat which seemed unlike a stylist to do, she seemed rather cold.

Then she washed his hair, combed it out, trimmed it, dried it.

At that point he got dressed. A suit had been made for him, simple, black shoes and pants and jacket with a white shirt, a few buttons undone, and a loose blue tie.

Then he was back in the chair for her to do makeup and finish his hair.

"Should I make some comment about my being a man?" Pete asked as his stylist laid the makeup out.

She only scowled. Not everyone treated the Careers like royalty—mostly ones like her, who were jealous.

Pete could understand people being jealous of him.

She parted his hair more neatly, styled it with more products, then started on the makeup, just some concealer and lip balm.

"You'll do," she said, when it was almost time for him to go. "Stay and let them do your injections. Then you can go."

With that, she swept out of the room.

Pete waited impatiently.

Soon a familiar man came over and said, "All right, Pete, these shouldn't hurt you a bit. Just some last ones before we put you in the Capitol's hands."

"All right-y then," said Pete, and rolled up his sleeve, held out his arm. The man swabbed his arm before starting with the needles, three quick shots of steroids and something psychiatric.

"All done," said the man cheerfully. "Good luck, Pete." He cleaned up and also quickly left.

Pete was free to go now, so he went out into the hall. He'd go straight to the Reaping—he'd see his parents later. But his siblings were waiting in the hallway. They talked about their training as they walked, Pete exchanging words or winks or nods or smirks with other Careers.

"I'm doing a bit better in training," said Nicki.

Pete nodded.

"That's good," said Matt.

None were concerned about the approaching Reaping. Pete was sure to win. It was that simple.

They reached the square and signed in—the check-in woman congratulated Pete on being chosen to volunteer.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll see you when I get back?" He winked yet again.

The check-in woman laughed.

Pete bid his siblings farewell and went off to the eighteen-year-old male section. He was eager for the Reaping to get started, eager to start his time in the spotlight, eager to volunteer.

Finally he got a glimpse of the Mayor. Pete thought that if he was interested in politics, he might've liked to be the Mayor. He liked leading and he loved District One. But he did like the current Mayor, who was starting the ceremony.

"Welcome. We begin this Reaping Day with the story of our great nation."

Pete also loved the Reaping ceremonies. He found them fascinating and loved the energy that resonated through the square.

He looked up at the performers who had come out—he knew some of them, they had been at the Training Center with him earlier. The screen behind them was much less personal, but he hummed along to the music.

The Mayor spoke and Pete stopped humming, listening attentively. He loved to hear about the Games, especially the Quarter Quells—and he got to _compete_ in one!

The Mayor finished by talking about the victors of District One.

_Soon he'll talk about me, too, _Pete thought.

But that part of the Reaping ended. Their escort, Ammon, who Pete couldn't wait to actually meet, took the stage. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor," he said. "I am _delighted _to be here with the good people of District One. I'm sure that your brave and noble tributes will bring honor to your District. We'll be meeting them in a moment. I wish them all the best of luck."

Ammon paused.

"Now, we call for our _female _volunteer!"

There was quiet. Pete looked around, trying to see who this non-Training Center volunteer was. What if they didn't volunteer? That would be typical of a non-Career. And then the un-prepped old selected tribute would have to volunteer.

But then he heard: "I volunteer!" and saw someone emerging from the female section across from where he was.

When she was in the aisle, he heard, barely, "I volunteer as tribute."

"Excellent!" Ammon enthused, and the girl went up to the stage, repeatedly looking at the ground. "What's your name?" Ammon asked her when she was in place.

"Demetra… Sophie… Montgomery."

"Very nice."

Pete examined his new district partner. She had thick red hair that was untypical of District One. And she seemed… hesitant. She wasn't much of a Career. So why was she volunteering?

But soon it would be Pete's turn. What he'd looked forward to his whole life.

"We now call for our _male_ volunteer!"

"I volunteer!" Pete shouted immediately, voice filled with glee, and scrambled out of the rope section.

"Come on up," said Ammon, and Pete beamed. He went up to the stage, grinning out at the whole audience until he was on the stage.

"What's your name?"

"Petore Glint, but you can call me Pete," he said proudly. He flashed another smirk and winked out to the crowd.

"Welcome, Pete," said Ammon, and shook his hand. Pete kept his grip strong, wanting to seem confident—which he was. He just wanted to make it clear.

Ammon shook hands with the other volunteer—whatever her name was—and then gestured for Pete to shake hands with her too. So he did—her grip was weak. He smiled at her. She seemed scared.

"We now have a live performance of our anthem," said Ammon. Pete's old friends came back out from the Justice Building to sing.

Pete hummed along with the song again. He loved the anthem. Soon he would hear it played over the deaths of his enemies.

He would bring honor to District One and be famous in the Capitol.

It would be perfect.

He joined the applause as the performers went back into the Justice Building.

"I wish you all a happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor," Ammon called out. Then he put his arms around Pete and the girl volunteer and escorted them into the Justice Building.

Pete arrived in a room of his own to say his goodbyes in. They were only temporary, so he wasn't expecting that many people to show up. Just his family, and Diamond. Diamond had been his next-door neighbor almost his whole life—she was born shortly after him. They'd been friends ever since, but no one knew, because, well, Pete always had a reputation to uphold, and so did Diamond—she was the whiz kid of the school.

But his family came in first, all at once.

"You were _wonderful_!" his mom enthused, hugging him tightly. "Everyone's going to know our family, _everyone, _oh, how wonderful it'll be." She released him, and let his dad hug him. Hugs from his dad were rare since he was usually at work, but Pete still loved him.

Finally he was free of their grasps, and everyone let out a breath.

"The Capitol's going to love you," his mother continued.

Pete knew that she was partially living out her old Career dreams through him, which a lot of the Training Center's kids' parents did, but he didn't mind. He was happy to be a Career.

"I know," he smirked in response.

"It'll be great," said Matt.

Nicki nodded along eagerly. "It will be," she said.

All he had to do was get through the easy-peasy Games, eluding whatever the Gamemakers threw at him, and then he would have an even more luxurious life.

"I can't wait to see how you do," Nicki continued.

"You're going to be so cool," said Matt.

His father finally spoke: "Just be careful, son."

Pete rolled his eyes. "I will be."

His sister suddenly held out her hand. "I was thinking you could take this for a token," she said.

It was a little token with the emblem of the District One Training Center on it. Certainly appropriate for Pete and the Games, as a literal district token. It would motivate him to win further, to make his district—and family—proud.

"Thanks," he said, and took it from her. He put it in his pocket. "I'll use it." He smiled.

Nicki smiled back.

"Time's almost up," said Pete's father.

Pete nodded. He didn't really have anything left to say before the Games—he could say it after. It wasn't like the Games were going to change his mind.

He hugged everyone in turn. "I love you guys," he said, drawing away from Nicki last and ruffling her hair.

"We love you too," said his mother.

"I know," Pete smirked, and Matt punched him in the shoulder lightly. "See you after the Games, okay?"

Everyone nodded.

"I'll be a victor then," he said, half matter of fact, half wistful. "And we'll live in the Victor's Village."

He reflected that he would then be moving away from Diamond—but that might take the suspicion off them even further. Some people would think they were romantically involved, but Pete felt like nothing more than a big brother to her. He just flirted with everyone, that was all.

"That'll be nice," said Nicki, on the Victor's Village.

"Soon, sis," said Pete.

The Peacekeepers opened the door. "See you guys later!" Pete called after his family, and then the door shut.

He waited for Diamond.

It didn't take long.

The door opened again almost right away and Diamond stepped through, shutting it carefully behind her. She didn't hug Pete, just looked at him over the top of her glasses. "Do you have a plan?" she asked.

Pete laughed, and tugged her ponytail playfully. "Why so serious?"

"It's Reaping Day."

"And we're in District One," Pete told her. "We're Careers, Diamond. Today's a celebration for us."

Diamond shrugged.

"Hey, don't start worrying about me now."

"I didn't start today."

"Well, _sorry_," said Pete. "I'm gonna win. What's there to worry about?"

"Your odds are twenty-three to one."

"That's just technically. I'm a volunteer, it's different."

"Everyone's a volunteer this year."

Pete hmm'd. "I'm still a Career."

"There are six Careers in every Games. Maximum, one comes out."

"Hey, where's all this negativity coming from?"

"The Games aren't to be taken so lightly, Pete. Neither are the other tributes."

"I'm better than all of them," said Pete.

Diamond shrugged again.

"You don't think I am?"

"Sometimes it's not the best that wins," she said quietly. Her voice was a bit choked. Instead of angry, she suddenly just seemed sad and scared. "Pete. Please. Just be careful."

"I will." He squeezed her shoulder. "Hey. It'll be fine, okay?"

Diamond nodded and sniffled, wiped at the tears that had slipped down her face. "Okay."

Pete hugged her tightly and she cried for a minute. "It'll be fine," he repeated. He was confident, but that wasn't helping Diamond. He wished that he could come up with more to reassure her, that she would just _listen_ and accept that Pete would be the best in the Games.

Finally she pulled away. "I love you," she said, and it was still half a sob.

"I love you, too," Pete said, much more lightly.

"If—if anything happens to you—"

"Nothing's going to happen."

"Well what if it does!" Diamond screamed suddenly. "Have you ever even thought about that?!"

"It'll be fine!" Pete yelled. "Just accept it!"

Diamond didn't respond, just started crying harder again. So Pete hugged her again. "I'm sorry. But it'll be fine."

"I hope so," Diamond whispered.

Then the Peacekeepers were knocking. Pete let go of her, they exchanged "I love you"s one more time, and then Diamond was gone.

Pete was alone for a second before Ammon came for him. His argument with Diamond had disturbed him a little, but he decided to not let himself be rattled by it. He had to stay confident.

Then Ammon knocked on the door. "Looks like your visitors are done," he said cheerfully. "We're just waiting on Demetra now."

"Great," said Pete. He thought of something else to say. Being the escort's favorite would help his sponsorship. "You were great at holding the Reaping," he said.

"Thanks." Ammon beamed.

Pete nodded. Soon Ammon poked his head into the hallway again and said, "Looks like Demetra's visitors are up, too. Let's go fetch her." Pete got up and followed him to the other visitation room, where they collected Demetra. She didn't seem to be in the best shape. Pete was becoming convinced that his district partner would go down quickly.

He'd avoid killing her himself. It was frowned upon in District One.

"Ready?" Ammon asked her.

Demetra nodded. Pete was finally starting to remember her name.

They went through the back of the Justice Building to meet the film crews at the train station. Pete was smirking the whole way. This was his strong suit, other than actual sword combat. People. Most people. The Capitol, at least.

He kept on his smirk for the cameras flashing at him, looking right at them. A microphone emerged from the chaos. "Can you tell us what drove you to volunteer?" a reporter asked Demetra.

She hesitated. Pete rolled his eyes even though he wanted to know. "I just… I just knew that I have what it takes to win the Games."

_Bull,_ thought Pete.

"Pete?" asked the reporter.

"I've been training for the Games my whole life, and I was the best," he bragged automatically.

There were more questions. "How do you feel about the Quarter Quell?" one reporter asked him.

"I think it's great that the other districts are gonna have to act like us," said Pete. "But they still don't stand a chance against me." He winked.

Next to him, Demetra clearly struggled with the questions.

"Pete!" called a reporter. "What's motivating you to make it back home?"

"I want to do my district proud," he said. "And bring honor to my family."

Pete could have answered questions happily all day, but Ammon said, "That's enough questions for now, we'll see you all back in the Capitol!" and gestured for the tributes to follow him onto the train.

Pete was so ready for their trip to the Capitol. He just couldn't wait to get started. Soon he'd get even more time in the spotlight. Soon he'd be the golden boy of the Capitol. Soon he'd get what he'd been waiting for his whole life—glory, victory, fame, fortune, luxury….

He waved and smiled at the cameras and reporters as he boarded the train. "I'll see you after the arena, too!" he called, though it might have been lost in the chaos.

Demetra seemed to want to hide on the train. Ammon was closing the doors. Pete tried to soak up the last seconds of attention, still waving and smiling out. He moved over to the window, standing close to the glass. As the train started to pull out of the station, he didn't move until the reporters were out of sight.

Demetra had long ago moved further into the train car. But Ammon seemed pleased with Pete.

"Eager to get to the Capitol, eh?" he asked Pete.

"You have no idea."

**xxx**

**Author's Note: **And we officially meet Pete! Thoughts? I've also written up a reference post for this story on my blog at littleletterslost . blogspot 2015/01/where-theres-will-behind-scenes . html. You can subscribe to the blog by email to get possible future updates! Also, there are still other tribute spots open, so again, please let me know in a review if you want the form. Thanks.


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